


give you up

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Series: SASO 2017 [11]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Challenge: Sports Anime Shipping Olympics | SASO 2017, M/M, POV Second Person, Selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 19:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11297562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: His smile is the mirror of yours, except for the trail of milk bread crumbs on the corner of his mouth. He wipes them off with his thumb, licks it with relish, and says, “Of course I know.”





	give you up

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SASO 2017 Bonus Round 2: Tic-Tac-Toe | Prompt: Give you up  
> [originally posted here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/22249.html?thread=12057577#cmt12057577)

 

You don’t remember the first time. Why would you? You’ve never been that kind of romantic. What you are is sentiment worn fine like grit between your teeth, a half-turned back and an air-kiss that tastes, faintly, of mint. He knows that too.

 

* * *

 

 

It never occurred to you to ask questions. 

 _You were up so late last night, Tooru, who were you talking to?_  
  
_Myself_ , you answer, honest. Taking a huge swig of milk straight from the carton in the fridge, you bid your mother good night with an airy wave and climb the stairs two steps at a time. You’re still sweaty and kind of gross, but you throw your bag down at the foot of your bed and flop down on it anyway, staring at the ceiling.  
  
In your outstretched hand, your phone blinks with several notifications. One from the coach, with next week’s training schedule attached; another from Iwaizumi, threatening to kick your door in if you oversleep again next morning.  
  
“Iwa-chan’s _such_ a nag, huh?”  
  
The voice that floats to your ears from the window is light, daring, laced with a fondness you’d only admit to yourself just like this, and you turn.  
  
“How did you know it was Iwa-chan?”  
  
His smile is the mirror of yours, except for the trail of milk bread crumbs on the corner of his mouth. He wipes them off with his thumb, licks it with relish, and says, “Of course I know.”

 

* * *

 

On your fifteenth birthday, he brings cake, half-eaten.  
  
“You asshole,” you say, with an unbecoming pout as you grab the plate and shovel a forkful into your mouth, and he shoots you a smirk, joins you on the edge of your futon. It’s then that you noticed he isn’t wearing the blue and white jacket any more. He’s in your school uniform, shirt untucked and collar loose.  
  
“Hey—” you start, and then you don’t know how to continue.  
  
He tilts his head to meet your gaze. It’s like looking into a glass when the rainy season’s just starting. The drizzle has been coming and going all day, sweeping a humid grey through the dogwood trees, across the gutters.  
  
“I got kicked off the team,” he says, matter-of-fact.  
  
“What? That’s impossible,” you protest. “ _I’m_ still on the team, and—you’re—“  
  
_Me._ You swallow, feel it go down tart in your throat, a strange flavour mingled with sweet blueberries and whipped cream.  
  
He laces his fingers together and looks down into his cupped hands. When he speaks again, it isn’t a confession, not really. “Well, I punched Tobio-chan. I guess you didn’t.”  
  
“I wanted to,” you admit. Your voice is thick, a barely intelligible mumble. “Iwa-chan stopped me.”  
  
In the dead air that hangs between you, the glass cracks, splinters from the centre; like a bruise, it blossoms with a constant ache.  
  
“Happy birthday, Tooru,” he says, inching closer, and rests his head on your shoulder.  
  
_Happy birthday._  
  
The wish sounds hollow, even on the tip of your tongue. You settle for giving him the rest of the cake.

 

* * *

 

 

You have never been afraid of the dark. The shadows are safety, familiarity; you know where he lives in places you cannot reach by day, where the light retreats and there are ripples soft as secrets. He is capricious, as you're well aware, and you cannot always predict when he will come to you, but he comes and his touch is like a comforting surrender, and sometimes it burns, but you take his face in your hands and his breath is summer fading and his voice breaks beneath your lips.

“Can you turn back time?” he asks you, once, and only once, a ragged whisper against your ear. “Can you change the past?”

_Can I be you?_

Entwined, you feel his ankle hook round your own, his arms tremble.

“You have to live,” you say. “Because you’re amazing.”

You think you hear him half-laugh, half-hiccup a mouthy retort, like _you’re so full of yourself_ , but the night is short and your time is running out, and so you kiss him again on the cheek, and breathe. _Mint. Sweat. Milk bread and chocolate._

 

* * *

 

When you wake, the futon is warm and your sheets are rumpled. Your pillow’s still damp like someone’s been crying into it.  
  
Maybe one day, you’ll see him again.


End file.
